I find it hysterical that the ladies I work with talk consistently about being victim to fashion. They refer to the painfulness of heels as their feet being victimized. I l-o-v-e wearing heels, but they are ultimately the least practical piece of wardrobe that a person could possibly own. Heels are truly a male invention to make women’s butts look better, and to make it harder for them to run away. I could not have said it better myself, Amanda Bynes!
On my way to work, I often stop in the Starbucks below the Empire State building to get an iced coffee. Being that this Starbucks is inside such an esteemed building, of course it would require the entrance to be a revolving door. The other day, while following behind a woman with a long flowing scarf, I witnessed another type of fashion misfortune. This one was rather life threatening; however, I’d like everyone to know that no one was severely injured during the making of this story. The scarf got caught in the exterior glazing and proceeded to stretch further and further in the opposite direction of the woman. Luckily, the man behind me caught what was going on, and yanked the scarf free before any real damage was done.
I have certainly been a victim of fashion once or twice in my time. As a matter of fact, today, I am pretty sure I was a sufferer of something. Maybe not fashion, but shopping? I went into a sketchy little boutique in the garment district (sketchy as in the people working inside, not the clothing that they were selling). I collected some America gear from around the store because the 4th of July is only two short days away. I decided that I’m going all out this year. I get the feeling that everyone else will be dressing up. I have one outfit for clubbing tomorrow night, and another for my catamaran adventure the next day.
While in the dressing room, I started smelling something foul. Just to make sure, I smelled myself. No, oddly, it wasn’t me. I then grabbed ahold of the shirt suspended from my shoulders and took a long sniff. I was wearing a shirt that had previously been drenched in cat pee. I kid you not; people don’t just make stuff like this up. I ripped the shirt off and threw it to the commissioned salesman. He was slightly less disturbed than I was, but that’s understandable considering he didn’t have the shirt enveloping his naked body.
I was also a victim of fashion the other day on my walk to work. I walk past a fancy hotel on 36th street. Every morning the doorman comes out and tells me, “you’re looking lovely this morning!” I do appreciate the fan club that I’ve accrued on my street. On this particular morning, I was wearing a short and airy red skirt. From my 8th floor flat, there is no way of deciphering the weather waiting outside. Once I take the elevator to the first floor (10 minutes commute down the 8 floors), it’s much too late to go back up and change. The wind was rather rough and wispy, and my skirt was no equal match. As I walked past my friend, the doorman, a gust of wind came and lifted my skirt completely. The goods (or lack thereof) were completely exposed. The doorman didn’t dally in running out and asking, “Are you alright!?” Yes, I was hit by a gust of wind, not a bus, sir. I know by his grin that he was not sincerely worried, but very amused as he then joked about meeting me—the modern Marilyn Monroe.
Alena Netia Horowitz